


instructions for dancing

by all_these_ghosts



Category: Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: F/M, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 01:26:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_these_ghosts/pseuds/all_these_ghosts
Summary: It is indeed the case that Glinda the Good reads all of her Lurlinemas cards, and this year she'll receive a special one.





	instructions for dancing

She’s so involved in her writing that she doesn’t notice Fiyero until he’s placed one white-gloved hand atop the card, pulling it toward the edge of the desk.

One quick, guilty glance up at him. His face is harder to read now, but she’s getting better at it.

"You can’t," he says. His voice is different, too: thinner, reedy.

She slides the card back in front of her. The green ink is smudged where he touched it and she fights a spark of irritation. It’s been six months and she’s still not used to his constant proximity, the way he hovers and questions and touches. After all, she’s been alone her whole life.

Except for Glinda.

"It’s Lurlinemas. She’ll get hundreds of cards." And she’ll read them all, Elphaba knows. Every single one, soaking in the praise and adoration.

She picks up the pen again and continues where she left off. What else can she say? There are things she remembers but she can’t imagine herself putting them to paper: _I miss the sound of your laughter. Your hands in my hair. The smell of your perfume, everywhere._

Fiyero sits next to her on the bench, and she reluctantly moves to make space for him. He says, "You have no idea who else reads her letters."

"It’s cruel. She thinks we’re _dead_."

"Well, we are."

She doesn’t say _maybe_ you _are_. If he is, it’s her fault. No heartbeat, no muscle or blood. He is what she made him.

"I’m not just going to drop it in the mail," she insists. She explains it to him, her elaborate plan: the Robin who will carry it back across the border, the co-conspirator who will take it to Gillikin to stamp it before finally putting it on a train so it can be retrieved and dropped in the mail somewhere else. She is not going to compromise their hard-won safety, not for a Lurlinemas card.

Still. This Lurlinemas card feels like the most important thing.

He sighs and takes it from her, running his finger along the loops and whorls of her writing.

_We’re safe. I miss you._

"I miss her too," he says, something more than just wistfulness in his voice.

Fiyero and Glinda, sharing a bed and a charmed life for all those years while she scraped and suffered in the wilderness. She shouldn’t ask, but she does. "Do you regret it?"

His eyes dart up to hers, full of surprise. "What? _Never_. Never, Elphaba. Not for a second." When she gives him a skeptical look, he sighs and continues, "I mean, I wish things could have happened differently. I wish we were still in Oz. I wish Nessa were alive. I wish I were…" He stops.

"Human?" she asks softly.

"I wish I were still the man you chose. Yes."

Elphaba feels a rush of affection for him then, despite everything. "I choose you every day," she says, placing her hand over his. He presses his lips to her temple and she closes her eyes. "There’s a spell that can fix this," she says, all in a rush. "I _know_ there is. I just have to…"

"Elphie. I know. I believe you."

At the Oz-Dust when he’d joined her and Glinda, echoing their strange, lovely dance. The ease and certainty in his every movement, no matter how ridiculous it would look on someone else. She’d never known someone so at home in their own body, and she had taken that from him. "You should get to dance again," she says.

He shrugs and pulls her closer. "Some things are more important than dancing."

"And...if you really think it’s a bad idea, then I won’t send it. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s too—"

"Send it."

Elphaba's heart catches. "Really?"

"Yeah." He gives her a long look. "This is important, too."

While she finishes the letter he stands up and paces, understanding, maybe, that some of it isn't for him. She signs it _Love, Elphie_ , and after she puts her pen down he asks, "Can I?"

She hands him the pen. He has to wrap his whole hand around it and still his writing is unsteady as he adds a few lines on the back and his name to the signature: _and Yero_.

"When you used to copy my notes back at Shiz I thought you had the worst handwriting in the world," she says fondly. "I was wrong. It's gotten worse."

Fiyero presses a hand to his heart — or where his heart should be, anyway. "I think I do pretty well for someone with no bones or muscles."

She smiles up at him. "You do."

"And I can still dance, Elphie," he says, offering his hand. She takes it and stands up, letting him drape his arms around her shoulders, resting her hands at his waist. He nudges her nose with his. "I just have to lean on you a little."

Fiyero hums a carol next to her ear. They sway together, and they are careful and clumsy and this isn't what either of them had hoped for, but oh, it could be so much worse. She still has so much to be grateful for.

* * *

 

It is indeed the case that Glinda the Good reads all of her Lurlinemas cards. Homemade cards from children with candies tucked inside the envelopes, letterpress from dignitaries and diplomats, lengthy notes from old friends in need of favors.

The last batch of cards arrives late on Lurlinemas Eve, just before the post shuts down for the holiday. Glinda, ensconced in her rooms, piles them on her desk in front of the window. Outside the world glows green and gold and bright.

She takes her time reading each card: after all, someone took the time to write them. She never throws them away after, either. Most of the letters go into a file cabinet in her office. Others require a response, and those she’ll bring back to the palace after the holiday, so she can ensure her replies meet the exacting standards of her office.

The last card in the stack has battered edges and a Gillikinese stamp and her name and address in green ink, in handwriting that pricks at her memory. As she opens it her fingers tremble.

 _Dear G(a)linda_ , it starts, and who else in the world would address her so?

She reads the letter, then reads it again. Her own heartbeat is unbearably loud, but beneath it she can almost hear Elphie's voice, reading the words aloud.

Glinda supposes she ought to feel angry or jealous or sad, but it's just relief she feels, washing over her like soft rain. For once the truth is better than she'd imagined, better than she'd hoped.

She sets the card down with the others, then sorts them all, placing them one by one into the file cabinet, into her bag.

And one card — just one, on plain paper with green ink, in an envelope with battered edges and a Gillikinese stamp — goes under her pillow to remind her.

She is alive, she is loved, there is still (there is always) a reason to fight.


End file.
